


Please, Tell Me What's Happening: Work 1

by ThereIsMoreToLife (llsilvertail)



Series: Please, Tell Me What's Happening [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Choking, Gen, Graphic Description, Needles, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, POV Second Person, READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTES IF YOU’RE CONCERNED, References to Depression, i don't know what this is, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llsilvertail/pseuds/ThereIsMoreToLife
Summary: You don't know what happens,Or happened,Or will happen.It's all blankness,And pain,And the knowledge that you fucked upbad.Youfucked upbad.Youfucked up bad.
Series: Please, Tell Me What's Happening [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093265
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Please, Tell Me What's Happening: Work 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a self-indulgent little poem to help me understand what the fuck is happening with my life. It’s basically a string of word vomit lol.
> 
> It’s basically unedited (except a couple words here and there were changed), so uh, fair warning, it’s _incredibly_ rough. There are somewhat graphic descriptions about needles and choking/gagging. It doesn’t exactly show it, just describes the sensations. Idk if it’s really that bad, but eh, just in case.
> 
> It was either post on AO3 or Tumblr, and Tumblr is meh, so here we are.

You don't know what happens,  
Or happened,  
Or will happen.

It's all blankness,  
And pain,  
And the knowledge that you fucked up _bad_.

You _fucked up_ bad.

 _You_ fucked up bad.

Are they different?  
No,  
Not really.

Because it doesn't matter.  
You don't remember.  
You can't remember.  
(Or maybe, it’s just you won't remember.)  
(You refuse to.)

It's just needles stabbing you.  
But you can't feel them,  
You just know they're there.

Pricking you.  
Poking you.

You can see them push into your skin.

You cry.  
But you're not sad.  
You just feel your tears tickle your cheeks.

You want to brush them away,  
But there's no point.  
They'll just be followed by more.

Sometimes, it's just one tear.  
Your head tilts back,  
And it falls from the crease of your eye.

A single sensation in a sea of false calm.

You know better than to indulge.  
One feeling,  
Sliding down through your chest,  
Pooling in your stomach.

A warm curl of happiness.  
A sharp spike of anger.  
A slow crawl of fear.

It will lead to more.  
It _always_ leads to more.

And you can't afford that.

To indulge in wants,  
Or hopes,  
Or dreams.

You have to focus on the next thing.

Or you'll be choked by regrets,  
Slipping into your mouth,  
Blocking your throat,  
So you can't breathe,  
Or swallow,  
Or move.

Because if you do,  
You'll feel the awful crawling sensation of bile coming up your throat,  
Gagging on your spit that can't be swallowed,  
Choking on your tears because there's nowhere for your sobs to go.

And yet,  
You can't.  
It doesn't matter.  
You won't allow it to.  
(Whatever _it_ means.)

They can't know your weakness.  
You can't let them see.

They'll pet it,  
And soothe it,  
And hold it near.

And you'll relax.  
Feel safe.  
Maybe even indulge in your wants,  
Or hopes,  
Or dreams.

But you're too close,  
Too relaxed,  
And you never see it coming.

Until it hurts.

Because you felt _safe_.  
You _indulged_.  
And you didn't have time to protect yourself.

You told them something.  
No, not a weakness.  
(You know better than to do _that_.)  
But a soft spot.  
Softer than usual.  
Softer than it should've been.

You hid it under an illusion of strength,  
And re-enforced it with a bit of a get and numbness.

You let yourself be optimistic.  
To hope that, even though it looked well protected,  
They'd treat it gently, with care,  
And you could take advantage of the ease of removing false barriers,  
And be rewarded with a tentative connection.

You let yourself be pessimistic.  
To realize that, because it looked so well protected,  
They'd toss it away to find a softer spot,  
And you could harden your weak spots with true barriers,  
And you knew a few bruises would be okay.

But you were _wrong_.  
You were _so_ wrong.

You couldn't predict what they would do.

You didn't think they'd rip it out.  
(You can still feel the burning pain of betrayal when you realized what they were doing.)  
(You can still see the dripping blood everytime you look at the hole where it used to be.)  
(You can still hear the tearing screams as their fingers and teeth sunk in and didn’t let go.)

You can't remember much beyond that.  
You wrapped yourself in a cocoon of nothingness.

You showed scorching anger,  
And downpours of sadness,  
But you didn't feel them.

You don't feel them.

Or, you try not to.

There's nothing left to burn except the muffling fabric around you.  
There's nothing that can soak except the cotton within you.

So your anger and sadness come back,  
Creating holes in everything they touch.

You plug them.  
You have no choice.  
Collapsing isn't an option.

It distracts from the smoking, wet, remains next to you.  
You don't know what they used to be.  
You're not sure you care.

Yet,  
You can't ask for it.  
Not only because you can't remember what _it_ is,  
But because it doesn't matter.

You won't let yourself think you deserve better.  
(Whatever _better_ means.)

You will do what they say,  
Nothing more,  
Nothing less.  
(Not that you have a choice.)

They can't have your feelings.  
(So neither can you.)

You _know_ there's more you want to say.  
You can _tell_ there's more you want to say.  
You _feel_ that there's more you want to say.

Because the words are sitting in your chest,  
Wrapped around your ribcage,  
Squeezing tighter and tighter.

But every time you reach for them,  
They're whispers of smoke,  
And your hand goes through,  
And you can't remember.

You're not sure you care enough to find out why.

Or maybe, you're just too tired.  
Tired of what?  
Of everything.

(You can remember what they did with the soft spot they took.)  
(It was hardened,)  
(And coated with acid,)  
(And used against you.)

(You try to forget.)


End file.
